


An Illicit Love Lost

by Walsingham



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Death, Gen, Homophobia, Suicide, Violence, various trigger warnings apply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4046122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walsingham/pseuds/Walsingham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valentine is forced to feel betrayal, pain, fear, and hopelessness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Illicit Love Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if you have any issues with characterisation and the like, it was written in a bit of a flurry.  
> The ending of this work was inspired in part by ['No Loneliness' by danagasta.](http://fuckyeahtimmcmullan.tumblr.com/post/120146991265/the-sad-end-of-arthur-valentine-i-actually-wrote)

   Arthur Valentine hovered in the shadows, his back pressed into the brick as he watched the familiar gait of an approaching figure. A door opened, briefly splashing light over the figure's face, making him flinch. Laughter and chatter erupted through the doorway as a patron stepped through and closed the door behind them before continuing in the opposite direction. Absent-mindedly, Valentine rubbed the heel of his hand over his chest, and became aware of the erratic pace of his heart. This feeling, once so unfamiliar and foreign, now brought a smile to his lips as he waited for the young man to whisper for him. His hand drifted silently back down to his side and slipped into the pocket of his long coat. His fingers fiddled with the slip on his cigarette case, but he resisted the urge to pull it out and light up.

   The young man had kept an eye on the man who had just left the club until he was out of sight, before turning back and squinting into the shadows, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

   "Philip? Philip, are you here?" he whispered, glancing around him. Valentine pushed himself away from the wall and stepped into view, quickly wiping a sudden grin off his face and adopting his usual distant air.

   "Right here, Jack." Valentine quirked the flash of a smile as the other man jumped slightly, but faltered when Jack kept glancing around, shoulders hunched and hands still buried in pockets.

   "What's wrong, my love?" Valentine asked. He pulled his hand from his pocket and walked towards Jack with his palms out, but didn't move or speak. When he was close enough to Jack to touch him, he ran his hands down Jack's arms, as if to smooth out the tremors. Valentine's hands travelled down to his partner's, slowly pulling them out of his pockets to hold them, but the moment Jack felt cold fingers on his bare skin, he jumped back involuntarily, jerking his voice into action.

   "I'm sorry, Mr Valentine."

   The use of his real name made his blood freeze in his veins and his breath rush out of him into a cloud between them. Even as he heard the creak of a door open in the alley behind him, years of training failed him as Valentine continued to stare at Jack. Horror slid down his spine, his mind slowly ticking over. A spear of pain to the back of his head registered as a stain of red across his vision before he fell into black.

* * *

   It's amazing how quickly the body breaks under violence. To the man on the ground, it's almost like the pain has no beginning and no end. In the moment, it inhabits their whole life, yet the mind still cannot work between strikes, the second wiping all thoughts that occurred after the first. But to the men above, the flash of adrenalin makes the act brief, no more than flailing limbs and heavy breaths honed by anger and fear.

   In reality, it's mere minutes before a fit man is reduced to a half-dead body. Mere seconds between each rib shattering. One moment, the cobblestones are dark only with dirt. The next, rivulets of blood run between each uneven stone, travelling further with each cry and yell. When silence prevails, and wails turn to whimpers, the blood dries and dyes the path.

* * *

   Valentine forced his eyelids to open, immediately regretting it as bright light painfully pricked at his eyes. He groaned as he scrunched them closed again. The sound rattled through his body and quickly turned into a sharp yelp as every shift set his body on fire, bringing floods of memories with it. Noises and voices he couldn't place echoed around him, but he concentrated on staying still and trying to regain some semblance of his bearings. As far as he could tell, he was lying on his back, his aching head resting on a bundle of cloth. He twitched his fingers and felt the skin of his hands sting with lacerations. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he realised his jacket and hat were likely ruined beyond all repair, and that it'd cost an arm and a leg to get that sort of thing replaced. The voices that surrounded him seem to become clearer, and he just barely heard his name murmured discreetly. Valentine opened his eyes again and blinked away the startling light until it only left an imprint on his vision. An unfamiliar face swum above him, and he would have shied away, had the face not been looking towards a group of men, the lips forming a familiar name.

  _Mr Foyle. Mr Foyle, he's awake, sir._

   The short detective broke away from the group and hurried over. He was also speaking, but Valentine's vision and hearing were wobbling and distorting, and he couldn't make out the words before his eyes fluttered shut and his mind emptied again.

* * *

   When he awoke again, Valentine was in considerably less pain and in much more comfort. Instead of being aflame, his body throbbed dully. Every movement only made it more so, but it was tolerable now. Dragging a lightly bandaged hand over his bruised face, he looked around and quickly identified where he was to be the same place as he was after the last time he'd been confined to a hospital bed. The only difference this time was the form of Christopher Foyle watching him from a chair to his right.

   "Crikey, Foyle," he croaked when he noticed, startled at the sight. He rubbed his throat slightly, raw from lack of use, as he regarded his colleague, trying to read him. One side of the smaller man's mouth lifted in a small smile, but it didn't reach his eyes and quickly fell again.

   "Arthur. Glad to see you're healing well," Foyle said in his usual quiet tone, tapping his trilby against his knee. Valentine made a slightly dissatisfied noise in reply, and they fell into a slightly tense silence. But the silence left space for Valentine's memories to make themselves known, so he opened his mouth to speak over the scenes in his head, but Foyle beat him to it, finally choosing to spit out what news he had taken upon himself to impart.

   "Arthur, they found you outside the same club as before, and I'm so sorry, but word got around the office before I had even heard," Foyle looked at Valentine evenly, though his bobbing trilby belayed his calm voice. Valentine stared at him as the words sunk in.

   "N-no, please. You're not telling me they want me g-g-"

   "I tried to do what I could, but it got out too far. I really am very sorry, but I thought it better that you hear it from myself rather than our superiors." Valentine nodded his thanks before looking away. "Do you need a minute?" Foyle asked as he pushed himself out of his chair, and Valentine nodded again.

   Only when the door clicked behind his former colleague did he allow the horrors and betrayal of that one night overwhelm him. Coupled with the strain of hiding some part of himself to everyone he met in his entire life, Arthur Valentine let his emotions rip through him and tear him apart.

* * *

   He was so lost, even as he stood in an office that had once been so familiar to him. His few personal effects sat in a cardboard box in the middle of the desk, among papers he was no longer allowed to know of, his new level of clearance being non-existent.

   This job had taken everything from him, but he'd been happy like that. He'd been able to live with nothing except the job, because the job allowed him to live different lives, and even save a couple. It had all been worth it when he thought that he would likely die while doing it anyway. But now not even that was left for him.

   There was nothing left for him. Not here, not anywhere.

   He sat down heavily in his desk chair, feeling hot, damp tracks on his cheeks. He wiped them away hurriedly and bent to search through one of the drawers he was yet to empty for a spare handkerchief, when his slim fingers brushed against cold metal, and he pulled out his sidearm. He'd almost forgotten it was there. He didn't have to surrender it until he left for the last time.

   Almost forgotten. Not quite. The thought was always in the back of his head, since the day Foyle had visited him in hospital. In the end, it would be so easy. The weight of the gun and the fit of the grip in his hand was almost intimate.

   Even taking aim was familiar. He'd had occasion to practice before.

   The only new sensation was actually pulling the trigger and the infinite darkness that came with it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Also I apologise.  
> xxx


End file.
